A Christmas Angel
by melima8788
Summary: The scooby gang has been invited to the annual Christmas party at Wolfram & Hart, In between dress hunting and tree trimming will there be time for a bit of old fashioned Christmas Cheer in fast-paced Los Angeles?


A Christmas Angel

"Buffy!! Mail!!" Dawn bounded into the apartment she now shared with her older sister in Sacramento, California. It was the very beginning of December, and with three weeks of school left, Dawn began to appreciate every little chore her sister gave her so she could escape from the rigors of her homework. Buffy had yet to realize that this was Dawn's modus operandi,  so she was suspicious (and rightly so!) of how clean her small apartment stayed, how fresh the laundry smelled, how the dishes were always neatly stacked in the cabinets, and, of course, how the mail always found it's way in a neat little pile on the green Formica counter. It was nice to come home, after spending a day counseling at Dawn's school, to a neatly swept house. She could quickly make dinner (or if she felt like it, order pizza), and then head out and do her after-sunset slaying. 

However, this was not the case today. Last night, while slaying, Buffy had managed to, some how, some way, throw out her back. Therefore, Buffy was home. Giles, the old worry-wart, had already stopped by and given her the English equivalent of hell, before leaving with his typical stodgy British warning;

"And remember," he said, "Whatever you do, do not use this milk. It tastes absolutely awful!" Buffy irritably said thank you, and showed her Watcher to the door. Thus, without anything better to do, she snatched the mail off the counter and returned to her corduroy-fabric recliner in the living room. 

"Bill, Bill, ooh, lookie, _Hemingford_ is having a sale!" On the bottom lay a parchment invitation. The text on the invitation was gilded with gold, and _Wolfram & Hart_ were emblazoned proudly in Times New Roman font, size 12. She broke the plastic seal, and flipped open the 3 x 5 card. It said, in the same gold-embossed font as displayed on the font, 

"To the Summers family,

Wolfram & Hart cordially invites you to join our annual Christmas party on the 21st of December at 7:00 sharp. Please RSVP immediately. This is a formal gathering, so please choose appropriate clothing." Buffy arched her eyebrows at the ending. It conjured two images to her present mind, and left a third image wandering around. The first image was of some unseen force trying to force Angel into a monkey suit. The second was of bleached-hair punk Spike tearing apart his tuxedo. The third image was of her being attacked at this 'formal gathering' in her $1,000 dollar, albeit rented, evening gown. 

"Dawn!!" She called from the depths of her plushy chair. "Bring me the letter writing box thingy on the desk! Please!" Dawn emerged, her hands pruned from the dish water. She handed the metal tin to Buffy. "Who are you writing to?" She asked, playing the part of the nosey sister.

"We're going to a party on the 21st." Buffy said, rummaging through the tin for a pen and writing paper. She pointed to the invitation on the arm of her chair. Dawn picked it up, with a shriek of joy. She loved dressing up!! 

            Buffy's back healed quick enough. The next day in fact, she was back in her creaky chair at the local high school, and that night she dusted two vampires. 

"Being a slayer has its perks." She told Dawn. "See that unsightly cut on my cheek?" Dawn folded her arms and looked at her sister. "Yeah? What about it?" 

"It'll be gone in the morning. Mark my words." 

"Right, Buffy. I know this. I have seen you through three apocalypses. Count 'em!" Dawn stabbed 3 fingers in the air, when the door bell rang. Naturally, Dawn ran off to answer it before her sister could come back with some witty remark that always there on the tip of her tongue. She opened it, and was in the process of calling for Buffy to tell her that 'the pizza dude is here', when the call died on her lips. "Xan—" Yet, that too died on her lips and Xander pushed past her. 

"Buffy!" He shouted, waving a dirty card in the air. Buffy emerged from the kitchen, holding a bag of cookies and looking guilty. He shoved the card into her free hand.

"R-r-read that." 

"Oh, Xander, what's got you so upset?" Buffy asked, flipping open the card. It had the same front as her invitation, yet the text on the inside was different. Severely different. 

"Harris," began the hastily scribbled in black ink card,

"Wolfram & Hart is having a Christmas party. It's  on December __, at _:__. If you can find a tux, which I seriously doubt, come visit. Highly doubt security will let you in though. Probably mistake you for a bum."

Buffy giggled with delicious mirth. This was probably Spike. Angel disliked Xander enormously, but he did make an effort to be nice to the construction worker. Only Spike would take the time to write the invitation and cut out the dates. 

"Don't laugh!" Xander protested. "This isn't funny! I'll show that…that...that stupid vampire wannabe. I'll have a tux." Xander wandered off into the living room, not before snatching the bag of Choco Chips Deluxe out of Buffy's surprised hands. The television clicked on. Buffy heard Xander settling down into her favorite chair. She was just about to go into her beige-carpeted living room when the door bell rang. 

"Pizza!" Came the voice from behind the door with the frosted glass window. Buffy fished twelve dollars out of her purse, and opened the door. 

            The next two weeks seemed to pass in a blur. At six every morning (except for Saturdays and Sundays), Buffy woke up to her obnoxious ringing alarm clock. Then, she woke up Dawn, downed a cup of cold coffee, and drove herself and her sister to school. From 7:30 until 1:30, she counseled petulant kids, and for another hour (sometimes more!) after that she usually attended some training conference.  Regardless, she was always home by five, just in time to serve dinner (or order pizza), and help with Dawn's Algebra II homework. Not that she was any _good_ at it. Math just was not her forte, if you catch her drift. Then, she was off slaying at 8 o'clock until 10 or 11. It depended on the day, frankly. Then it started all over again. Weekends were pretty much the same, accept they didn't wake up until nine, and then went out for breakfast or something like that. Those were blah days. Those days, they usually went shopping. However, here it was. Two days before the party, and with all their Christmas shopping, some how, Buffy had managed to neglect the dresses for her sister and for herself. Not that Dawn didn't remind her every single day. If Buffy looked at her situation from the eyes of the professional that she was, she probably would have seen that she was pulling an, 'Out of sight, out of mind' routine, like most of her teenage counselees pulled when they know they have a midterm, or final on the way. She had not seen Angel, or Spike, for that matter since Sunnydale blew up, becoming yet another crater on the West Coast.  Thus, Buffy found herself standing staring at a full length mirror in one of the dress shops in downtown Sacramento, trying on dresses. She tried on everything from the little black dress to the white dress with the chicken wire under the skirt. Buffy eventually settled on the seventh dress that she tried on. It was a pretty purple color, and the sales lady, whose name was Bridget, called it a petal dress. It had spaghetti straps, and an empire waist that made Buffy and the dress look quite delicate.  It cost quite a few green backs, so she made it known to Dawn that if she caught her within ten paces of this dress, she would be scrubbing the floor with her tongue. She also got a pair of shoes since most of hers were now lying in the rubble that was Sunnydale. She would find herself cursing most vehemently on the day of the party when she tried to walk in the 3 ½ see-through heels. Nevertheless, for now, she was determined that they went perfectly with her petal dress. Dawn, however, was impossible. If she did not want the little black dress, she wanted something that was sheer on the mid-torso area. Eventually, she settled for a bright red strapless floor length dress that Bridget called, 'French Thingy-ma-bob'. Evidently, she could not remember the name. This was a lot more cheaper than Buffy's petal skirt, so it was promptly decided that Dawn would not have to put in some extra hours at the local corner store to pay for it. 

            That night, Buffy promptly hung her dress in the closet and ordered Chinese take-out. She wasn't going slaying tonight, or the next night. She stayed home, and decorated. 

            They hung the  white icicle lights in the double-paned glass window where they would glow, and in Buffy's words, 'Create a festive atmosphere'. With the television tuned to _Miracle on 34th street _, they sat on the floor and alternately munched popcorn and dried cranberries while they made the garlands out of the same materials that they were eating. Xander popped in around 7:30, bearing a box of hot cocoa for the kid and a small bottle of bourbon. Actually, the bourbon was in a brown paper bag, which the tip was painfully visible poking out of his jacket pocket. 

"You are aware that makes you look like a lush, right?" Dawn asked, setting the kettle on the electric stove. 

"Shh, Dawn. I'm trying to keep my drinking a secret." Xander flashed her a one-eyed grin to show that he was joking once he spotted Buffy's gaping maw of shock. 

"I'm just joking, Buff. It's for you. A-a-and me, I guess. Figure we can get stone drunk tonight and have a hang over on Saturday. Take your mind off the party." He set the bottle on the table, and with a cry of, 'Ooh! Popcorn!' he took off for the living room like a rabbit being chased by a hound, or in this case perhaps, a cat chasing a field mouse. 

            Dawn went to bed three hours later, leaving her sister to pick up the popcorn mess from the food fight they had. The cocoa packets lay scattered on the counter. Buffy irritably swept them off and set two clean coffee mugs on it. Xander poured the red bourbon into the mugs.

"Classy, Buff." Xander said, in reference to the mugs with the toucan print around the rim. 

"Mmm." She took a gulp. It was obvious that this party was really bothering her. 

"Look, Buffy, if this whole thing if bothering you this much, why go?" Gulp.

"I just bought a $400 dress, and now you're telling me NOT TO GO?" Gulp.

"No, that's not what I said—" Xander paused. Sip. "I just suggested that if the party if really irritating you, than why go?" 

Buffy shrugged. "I dunno." Sip. Sip. "I just haven't seen Spike since…he…well…died, and I haven't seen Angel since…oh GOD." She stuck the mug in front of Xander. Xander obliged, and filled the mug to the top. This was beginning to remind him of his bartender job that he held when Buffy and Willow were off at college. 

"Hey, have you heard from Willow lately?" Xander was trying desperately to steer the conversation away from the subject of obvious distress. 

"Yeah." Buffy nodded her head. "Saw her last week, actually. She got an invite to the party too. So did Giles, and you, and me, and Dawn!" She took another gulp of the liquid.

Xander nodded. Apparently, he could hold his liquor much better than his slaying counterpart. Which was surprising, at least to him. 

"Did she say she was coming?" 

"Nooo…" Slurred Buffy. "She's…she's having Christmas with Kennedy's family. Than she's doing some witchy thing. I don't know what Willow's doing." Buffy dropped her head into her arms on the counter.

"Buff—hey, Buffy…" Xander nudged her arm. She batted him away, than started to snore. Xander looked concerned for a moment, then he grinned. 

"Guess you won't mind if I finish this then, eh?" He uncurled Buffy's slender fingers from the coffee cup with the toucan rim, and with a cry of cheers to the silent house, downed it. He then woke up the drunk Buffy as best as he could and walked her to her bed. From there, he snatched a leopard-print fuzzy blanket that was draped over the couch and camped out there. After all, when one cannot make rent on the apartment, one does need a place to crash. 

            The next morning, nothing was said about Xander being found snoring on the couch. Nothing was said about the empty five-pint bottle of bourbon on the table. Nothing was said about the two bourbon-smelling coffee cups with the toucan rim.  Buffy threw out the bottles and put the two cups into the washer machine. She took two aspirin tablets, and made a cup of coffee. Next, she made waffles. Not that she, or Xander could eat them. Dawn could though. And heartily she did! She ate four waffles loaded with Redi-Whip and fresh strawberries. Buffy lumbered into the living room. Xander was just beginning to wake up. They both shrieked and covered their ears when the cuckoo clock, the only thing Buffy had salvaged (Actually, Dawn had stuffed it into Buffy's weapons bag before they left the house. Why, she had no idea. It just seemed like a good idea at the time) from the Summer's house, released its shrill 'Cu-koo, Cu-koo' nine times. When it finished, Buffy pulled it off the wall and threw its batteries onto the floor. The batteries rolled into the kitchen and would stay there until two days later when Dawn would accidentally kick them out the door. They would then roll down the steps until a group of twelve year old boys found them. The group of boys then managed to get another 3 hours out of the Sony-brand disc players. And, at this point, the cuckoo clock's batteries travel out of our story and into another person's unimportant life's tale. 

            However, over at the law firms of Wolfram & Hart, the green-skinned demon known as Lorne was busy gaining a headache of a different kind.

"Oh, come on Spike. Just try it for me." Lorne begged, clasping his scaly hands together. 

"No." 

"Please? You must be kidding, you cannot seriously be planning to go to a formal dinner in jeans and a leather duster. C'mon, oh you corporeal kidder you!" 

"No. And give me back my trousers, you ponce." Spike demanded from behind the Chinese dressing shade in the tailor shop.

"No." Lorne said, rubbing his temples. "Try on the pants, at least." 

Spike threw the pants to the other side of the room. 

"Bugger this." 

Lorne glared. He opened his mouth.

"No! No! Don't you dare—Agh!"  Spike shrieked and covered his ears as Lorne hit a high pitched note that caused the glass vase on the counter to shatter, and the sales attendant to drop to his knees in agony.  Lorne straightened up and smirked at the bleach-haired vampire. Spike glowered.

"Gimme the pants." 

            That night at the Summer's house hold, hangovers were mostly gone. In fact, by supper time they were gone. Which was a good thing, seeing as how they had to go fetch a scraggly Christmas tree from Wal-Mart. Dawn insisted it be real. No, no artificial trees for her. 

"Had to be real, didn't it Dawn?" Xander grunted as he heaved the tree onto the top of Buffy's small car. Actually, it was Angel's car. But it was Buffy's now. Birthday present. Xander thought it was a bit extravagant for a birthday present, but, when you figure that the guy has got, like a whole parking lot filled with his own personal cars, he can afford to be extravagant. It was a pretty silver jeep-like thing with a rack for bikes on the top, so Buffy had tied a blanket to the top before he tied on the tree so the top would not get scratched. 

            They got home, and dragged the tree smelling of Christmassy evergreen into the apartment, and screwed it into its plastic stand. Dawn poured water into the tree's stand as Buffy dragged out the decoration boxes. Two hours later, the tree had multi-colored blinding lights, and enough ornaments to drag the tree's branches down to the ground. 

"I think it's cute." Said Dawn, smiling. "I'm gonna go grab some hot cocoa." Dawn took off for the kitchen.

"Bring me a cookie!" Buffy said, raising her hand. 

"'Kay!" Came the call from the other room.

"I think it's missing something." Buffy said, tapping her chin with her index finger.

"Nah, Buff, it's fine!" replied Xander.

"It needs an angel." 

            They went to bed, Xander on the couch underneath his fuzzy polar blanket, Dawn to her room, and Buffy to hers, respectively. The angel-less tree sat blinking merrily in it's corner amongst the pictures of Jolly Old St. Nick and numerous crosses (They weren't there for decoration, really, but who cared, it was Christmas!).  Around 12:30, the Christmas tree blew a fuse, causing the whole apartment to be shut down into darkness. Management eventually solved the problem with a visit half an hour later, ordering at leas one set of lights turned off. The windows were dark from that day on. The tree still twinkled merrily. Xander didn't mind it in the least. Growing up in Sunnydale meant he wanted a nightlight on hand at all times and a cross and stake under his pillow like a small child who keeps a flashlight by their bed side, or a grand parent who keeps their teeth in a cup with one of the teeth fresheners in the water on the table by the bed.  After a night of disrupted sleep, precious sleep was granted for a few hours, at least.

            Over at Wolfram & Hart, sleep was but a distant memory. 

"No, I don't want blood in the fruit punch.  Er, no, I don't think so—wait a minute. Is this management? No?" Another voice on the other end of the line. Soft spoken and definitely female. Angel's face contorted horribly, then he just suddenly, and irritably, punched the glow-in-the-dark POWER button on his cell phone and chucked it across the room with a swear. "SPIKE!" He bellowed, turning around, his leather coat all a-swirl

Spike looked up innocently from where he was dumping the contents of his silver flask into a nearby punch bowl. Angel stormed over. He thumped the younger vampire on the red-silk shirted chest.

"The next time I ask for management's number," He growled. "And you respond, you will give me MANAGEMENT'S NUMBER, not the line for TELEPHONE SEX!"

Spike threw up his hands in mock surrender. "Oh, well, sorry. You look a bit tense. Forgot you were a eunuch there, I did!"

"I. Am. Not. A. EUNUCH!" Angel stormed off again before he thumped Spike. No, that wouldn't do for either of them to have bruises at the end of the day. They could save that for after the party. 

"Told you he was tense." Spike said conversationally to the butler setting up the thimble-sized salmon and strawberry sandwich. The butler grunted an answer before hobbling off to check his steamed asparagus. 

            What is there to do when awaiting a big party? Wesley Wyndam-Pryce's answer to the question was a good ol' round of chess. Well, that and a bottle of prune juice. He was off the alcohol now; he'd be sticking to fruit punch at the party, and the eggnog respectively. Alcohol made him heady. Kind of a nasty feeling. He suspected he was allergic to the sulfur. 

"Knight to L3." 

"Dammit." Gunn, in a quick motion, swiped every piece off the board with his forearm as Wesley put his black marble king into a checkmate. 

"You should learn to control that temper of yours, Gunn!" Wesley admonished, wagging his finger in Gunn's face. Gunn grabbed Wesley's wagging index finger.

"Get that finger of yours at of my face, Wes. Now!" 

"Touchy touchy. Lawyer boy can't win a chess game so now he has to make threats!" Gunn stormed out of the room, muttering  about 'Stupid British know-it-alls'. Wesley exhaled through pursed lips. He started to hum. Then he sang. He alphabetically arranged his books. This killed five minutes. It did get a bit confusing once he realized that F came after E in his _Demons of the Underworld _encyclopedia gold edition set. 

"Wes?" Fred knocked on the door. Wesley jumped, knocking book number A (Which he had, by process of elimination, discovered did NOT belong after Z) to the carpet with the blue geometric design. 

"Yes, Fred?" He pushed his glasses back on his nose. He did that whenever he was nervous.

"You do know that the party is in two hours, right?" She asked, batting those big doe eyes at him. Wesley assumed that was unintentional. Fred looked like she was flirting all the time anyway. 

"Yes, Fred. Thank you for reminding me." Wesley sighed.

"What's wrong?" She asked, leaning on the door frame.

"Oh, I just don't feel up to partying tonight. You know, I would honestly rather be at my apartment, cross-referencing Mushov demons."

"Oh, I see. I don't think you have a choice. Angel fired one of the lawyers for saying that his grandmother had cancer of the brain and wasn't able to go to the party. Called it 'insubordination', I think." Fred smiled. "Bye!" She bounced out the door.

"Well. That was odd." Wesley bent down to pick up the book that had fallen on the floor. The cover had flipped open, and for the first time in five years he had noticed that someone had written something on the inside of the book in a black pen, probably a fountain pen. You see Wesley, in his spare time, had begun collecting pens. He displayed them proudly in a locked glass case in the rear of his office that used to hold weapons. Spike regularly asked him if he would attack a demon with his pen and poke out their beady little eyes with it. 

"Bloody hell! Are you insane, man?" Wesley would gasp, throwing himself at his pen case in a pathetic effort to protect them. "Don't ever think I would subject my…my…my precious pens to such rudimentary task!  That's why we have pencils, you imbecile." Spike at this point would storm out of the office in a huff, and Wesley would take out each of the 269 pens and clean them, then place them back in their velvet holders. 

Anyway, back to the writing on the inside of the gold edition _Demons of the Underworld _encyclopedia set, book A.

"_Dear Wesley,_" The writing began. "_This is your father, __Roger Wyndam-Pryce. Seeing as how you are now a rogue demon hunter—(yes, the hyphens are on purpose, Son. I must take this opportunity to insert one of the insults that spurred you on your whole life) since you can't even manage to take control of a Slayer—I know you no longer have the research materials available to you as you did when you were employed as a Watcher of the Vampire Slayer. Therefore, I have sent you this gold edition Demons of the Underworld encyclopedia set, books A-Z. In case you forget, A is at the beginning of the English alphabet, and Z is at the end (I know that spelling was never a strong point for you) God Speed, Son._

_Roger Wyndam-Pryce_

Wesley started at that inscription. He started at it for a full five minutes. Then, at the end of the five minutes, he climbed and stood on top of his cherry-wood desk. He threw the heavy book at his office window. It broke through the plate of glass, and sailed down twenty stories until it landed on some hapless bum (He was actually a lawyer that could not attain a proper tuxedo before the night of the party, so security threw him out). The lawyer-turned-bum fell dead on the spot, his neck snapped in two. Wesley jumped off his desk and peered out the broken window.

"Sorry about that!" He shouted, his voice echoing strangely down the 20 stories. He stalked off then to his closet, and pulled out his tuxedo. Wesley then stormed into the company shower room and dressed. Cleaning those damn fountain pens sure can make you dirty! 

Since it was down to the last two hours before the party, Buffy, Xander, and Dawn piled into her fancy silver-ish jeep car thingy with the bike rack on top and began to drive down to Los Angeles for the Christmas party. After the excitement of this morning, a quiet car drive is exactly what she needed. After the excitement of that NIGHT, Buffy had looked forward to a quiet morning. Ha. As if.

"Buffy!!" Hysterical shrieks from the bathroom. Buffy looked up from the kitchen where she was sweeping. "Help!" Buffy ran through the living room, past the merrily twinkling Christmas tree, past the grinning fat Santa Clauses, and into the hall where water was spraying as merrily as the Christmas Tree was twinkling from the toilet. Water was streaming down the hardwood floors. It reminded Buffy of her basement when she had tried to fix the pipes. She shuddered. 

"Buffy! Turn it off!" Dawn was standing in the bathroom door way, soaked from head to toe.

Buffy dashed for the telephone hanging on the wall in the small kitchen, so she could call the maintenance room. She paused in mid-run. "You dress isn't in there, is it?" She hollered.

"No! But I think the house is gonna flood if we don't get it stopped!!" Dawn emerged out of the bathroom, dripping from the tips of her long brown hair to the tips of her designer boots. 

"Ach! Get off the carpet!" Buffy snapped as she dialed the number for maintenance, which she knew by heart. She supposed this should worry her. They had not had the best of luck with their two bedroom apartment. Nevertheless, she dialed the number, and Ed, the guy in maintenance, picked up.

"What is it this time, Summers?" Said a irritated, bored sounding Ed. He had their number memorized; it was something every week with these two.

"Our toilet is flooding." Buffy said simply. She held the phone in the bathroom so Ed could here the water rushing out of the porcelain toilet bowl.  

Ed swore, and punched a button.

"I'm sending up a crew." He hung up abruptly, leaving Buffy starting at her purple V-tech cordless telephone. "Jerk." She said, punching the off button and hanging it up.

"The crew'll be here in a few minutes!" She hollered.

            The crew eventually arrived, and diagnosed the problem as a 'loose pipe'. Buffy had a hard time believing THAT was the actual problem, but since relieved as she was to have the problem fixed, she didn't complain. They mopped up the water as best as they could, and took their showers. Two hours later, everyone was at least in their dresses. Just doing final additions to their dresses. Obviously, as soon as they finished, they got in the car and drove as quickly as Buffy dared to. 

            Angel fidgeted. He stared at the mirror for a full five minutes, as if he was willing his image to appear. It didn't. He yanked on his bow tie. His tie became unraveled, so he tied it again. He readjusted it once he did that. Finally, he brushed his teeth.

"So, you ready for tonight?" Spike appeared behind Angel. Well, not really _appeared_, so much as snuck in the unlocked door. 

Angel turned around. He had known spike was there from the moment he came in. It just didn't bother him. Not today. 

However, he still felt compelled to ask the obvious question.

"What do you want?" 

"Oh, same old, same old _grand_sire." Spike leaned against the wall. Angel turned around.

"What? Tie your bow tie? Go ask Harmony." Angel turned back around to his marble sink.

Spike scowled. "Bloody hell, what kind of a moron do you think I am?" He snarled.

"Do you _really_ want me to answer that?" Angel chuckled and shook his head. He moved to where his dinner jacket was hanging on the bathroom door. Spike made no response. 

An uncomfortable silence settled down in the huge room.

"Did you want something, or are you just in here to bug me?" Spike grabbed a comb off the sink stand and combed back his hair. He still didn't respond. Angel glared. 

"I see what this is about. Little Spikey-wikey is nervous! Ha! Big shot." 

"Hey, that was uncalled for, mate!" Spike leaped up. He started bouncing around Angel like a five year old who had been deprived of its daily Ritalin, waving his fists and all. Angel rolled his eyes.

"You really are pathetic, you know that?" He stepped towards his door.

"Go to hell." Spike said. He sounded totally defeated. This evening was not going to be pretty. Both vampires knew that; both would be competing for Buffy's attention, and neither one would win it. That feeling prevailed over everything.

"Been there. Done that. Saved you a seat!" Angel stormed out. Spike narrowed his eyes.

"Miserable old sot." 

            On top of the great (Or not-so-great) law firm, a demon stood. He looked in cackling in evil demon mirth from the cathedral glass ceiling. He stared with disgust at the demons and lawyers alike dressed in their finery for the party. He stared longingly at the roasted pigs feet, the steamed asparagus, and the grade A caviar. Drool dripped from his gaping maw and landed on the glass. No body noticed. Lucky him. Slime dripped from his 7'6 body, which was a camouflage green. He had yellowed, razor sharp teeth which he occasionally bared from his liver-colored lips. He had glowing yellow eyes with small, cat-like pupils. He was dressed in a size 20 black boot with a gold buckle and a XXXXXL Santa Clause suit, complete with a white fur trim. He slung a rather-largish looking burlap sack over his shoulder, and lumbered heavily towards the metal fire escape. 

            "Okay, Dawn. You're not allowed to drink. Stick to the fruit punch, and the eggnog  _please_!" Buffy pleaded as she stuffed a stake into her small purple jeweled evening bag. Xander clambered out of the bag seat, groaning about how stiff he was.

"I'm no spring chicken, Buffy." He moaned, checking his hair in the mirror one more time. Buffy rolled her eyes.

"Let's go." She sighed. 

            As soon as they entered the building, Buffy lost sight of Dawn. Dawn had gone searching for anyone she knew—Faith, Robyn, Spike?  She wasn't picky. Unfortunately for her, the only person she found wasn't even a person by normal definitions. Spike, in his expensive tailored tuxedo, could be found guzzling down fruit punch. He had donned his old leather duster on top of the coat. It actually looked quite cute, Dawn found herself admitting. 

"Hey Spike." She said, waving. Spike looked up to see the teenager standing before him.

"Hi Nibblet." He guzzled another glass.

"Hmm. Must be…some…pretty good punch." Dawn made a face.

"Oh yeah, it's really good." 

"I'll…uh…leave you to it then." She giggled uncomfortably, and wiggled onto the dance floor. For a few minutes, anyway. 

            Xander had mingled instantly. Well, on the wall of losers anyway. They stood there, in their evening finery, sipping bubbling soda. Giles stood amongst them.

"H-e-e-y! It's the G-man!" Xander said, raising his hand for a hi-five. Giles looked at it. Xander put his hand down.

"What's the matter? To good for your old pal, Xander?"

"We don't do 'hi-fives'. But it is good to see you, Xander." Always the stodgy old librarian, that Giles. 

Xander nodded, and leaned against the wall with a plate of teriyaki strips. 

"You know," He said, around a mouthful of meat. "I have to hand it to Angel." He gulped down the food, and tore another strip off the stick. "He can choose a good menu!" Xander wandered off to find some more food. Giles shook his head. "Bloody Americans." He muttered. Giles, being the old, stodgy British dude that he was, considered himself indeed too good to assimilate with the Americans on the dance floor, so he turned his attention to the several _expensive_ art works and wood carvings on the wall. 

            Buffy had, the party creature that she was, instantly joined the dance floor. After a few miss steps with her fancy 3 ½ heel shoes, she was in her groove. She was dancing with some random lawyer guy (Or maybe he was an intern. She couldn't keep them straight.), when Angel asked if he could cut in. The young lawyer, or intern, or whatever he was, instantly gave up possession of the slayer and sidled away. He didn't want to end up like Bob. 

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I'm glad you could make it." An uncomfortable silence stretched between the two as they danced to a waltz by Chopin. The song ended. Angel drifted away. It seemed really awkward. God, he hated Christmas. Buffy just stared after him for a bit, before Spike clamped his black fingernail painted right hand on her shoulder.

            "Hey Cutie." He said. She looked at him.

"Okay, you know that leather and formal wear does _not_ mix, right?" Spike was easier to talk to than Angel. Spike shrugged.

"Never seemed to bother you before." She shrugged back, and was about to come up with a typical slayer pun when the lights went out, except for a single, bright stage light. The light was focused on someone or _something_, dressed in a Santa Clause suit that looked like it was stolen from some Salvation Army dude that would ring his little bronze bell beside his tripod money stand outside the mall.  The thing in the suit quickly snapped the current singer's neck. She tumbled to the floor, her jade eyes staring.

"What the Hell." Spike half whispered, scratching the back of his heavily-gelled head with his black fingernails. 

"Is this part of the program?" Buffy asked. She was looking a bit distressed. Where was Dawn? However, Spike had more…important concerns.

"Bloody hell!" He exclaimed, when the demon began to sing "Jingle Bells" in a throaty, yet somehow parched voice. He spotted Angel.

"Oy, there's unibrow." He pointed in Angel's direction, and waved his hand. Angel glared at him, and roughly grabbed a passing attendant. He hissed something in the attendants ear. The attendant shrugged his shoulders.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, 'I DON'T KNOW!'" Angel bellowed. The demon stopped singing. He stared.

"Mr. Angel!" He said. He sounded surprised, maybe slightly miffed. Never good with a demon, you see. If they can sound miffed, generally it means they are insane. "I am so disappointed!! Surely, you can be respectful enough to give a true angel time to sing." Spike snorted.

"You call that singing?" He asked petulantly. 

"And you call that a hairstyle?" The demon/angel answered back, in good humor. Buffy signaled Angel to come over. He cut through the crowd. Buffy also kicked Spike in the calf. "What the hell are you doing?" She hissed.

"Mr. Angel! You never addressed my question!" The demon/angel bellowed through the microphone that it held in it's meaty fingers. Angel stopped half-way through the hall. 

"I know a lot of people who sing better than you. Demons too." Angel folded his arms, and did the evil-Angel smirk. God knows where that came from.

"I have heard you sing." The demon/angel thingy winced. "Wasn't pretty."

"Yeah, well, fallen angels aren't too good at that sorta thing." 

In the back of the hall, people began pushing out the double-wide oak doors. Xander fought through the crowd. He was dragging a drunk, and slightly ditzy Dawn with his right hand, and pushing Giles with his left.  Buffy glared at her younger sister.

"Who spiked the punch—SPIKE!" She whacked him on his back. Spike pivoted and grabbed her fist before she punched him again.

"What was that for, slayer?" He asked irritably. "You-you-you spiked the punch! Dawn drank it! What were you thinking?" Gunn crashed into Spike, and shoved him out of the way.

"Thinkin' we got bigger problems than you drunk sis." The demon---yes, it was definitely an _insane_ demon. Angels, fallen or not, did not spit blades out at you, and fight with knifes that popped out of their arms.

"By God!" Giles exclaimed. "That's a Mordoc demon! They're not known for having the best of memories. Dirty fighters, they are." Giles indicated it with a nod of his head.

"Great. How do I kill it?" Buffy asked, her hands on her hips. "Um…well, you cut of it's head." 

"With what!" Buffy exclaimed. "My bare hands?" A weapon was placed in her hand. She looked up. Wesley stood before her, holding one of his silver pens (Probably the one Angel used to kill the werewolf. It just had that…look of evil). "With that, Buffy."

"Cool." 

The demon had jumped off the stage, and was now standing in front of Angel.

He shoved him. It looked more like a preschool fight than a fight between two mature demons. 

"You dissin' my singing, Irish boy?" Angel threw a punch. It landed on the demon's nose. Yellow goop spurted everywhere. So much for the tux. The demon gapped at him.

It launched at Angel. Angel threw his hands up to protect himself, in the process, forcing his little stake-contraption thingies on his forearms to pop up and skewer the demon in the chest. The demon plucked himself of them. He extended a scaly hand.

"Hi. My name is Bob."

"Bob isn't a very angelic name." Buffy appeared beside the goop-splattered Angel. She twirled her heavy, 14th century ax in her hand. 

"Where is my weapon?" Angel whispered discreetly in her ear. She handed him her pepper spray. He stared at it, unbelieving. 

"Thanks a lot." Bob missed this whole conversation.

"Never said I was an angel. I just asked if this was how you treated an angel." Bob flashed a toothy grin. He teeth were yellowed, and doing the demon-dagger thing (Not the vampire dagger teeth. Just dagger looking teeth), and his breath reeked of carrion. 

"Ew!" Dawn choked. "Haven't you ever heard of a breath mint?"

"Dawn," Buffy said warningly. "You're cutting in on my slayer punning. Shush." Dawn nodded meekly, than fled for the nearest bathroom. Buffy glared at Spike. He gave her a look in return. Bob suddenly ran for the door.

"Hey!"  Buffy yelled, running after him along with Angel and Spike. She slipped on someone's spilt eggnog. She slid impressively five feet on the waxed floor. Whence upon the slayer stood, her shoes broke. No, not simply one plastic heel, but both. She tore them off and ran barefoot after Bob. A few minutes, some intern running after the boss to tell him that someone had thrown up in the bathroom would trip over them and bang up his head. He would live however, with a moderate concussion, unlike the poor lawyer-turned-hobo who had his neck broken by a gold edition Demons of the Underworld encyclopedia, book A. 

            Standing in the plush-carpeted halls of the Wolfram & Hart agency, with only dim lights as guides (apparently time could not be taken to actually _turn on_ lights), Buffy twirled her heavy ax confidently. Angel wielded an ax similarly to hers. But not Spike, of course. Spike had to smash through the glass emergency case and take the fire-ax. The rest of the Scooby gang (Xander and Giles), and Angel's crew (Fred, Wesley, and Gunn) scanned the other halls. However, this was probably just a ploy to avoid actually running into the demon. Not that Bob was really all that frightening in his Santa Clause outfit.  Those five did not find Bob. Buffy, Angel, and Spike did however. In addition, they chopped off his head, splattering yet more yellow goop over Buffy's dress, Angel's already goop-splattered tux, and Spike's duster.  Of course, do you think this story would end so quickly? Or that Bob would give up that easily for that matter? No. Bob just jumped right back up and put his head back on! Angel's jaw gaped. Spike looked astounded. Buffy looked pissed. 

"How many times do I have to kill you?" She asked angrily, swirling her battle ax. It was quite a weird picture, yet one that seemed somewhat symbolic. Standing in bare feet, in her purple petal dress, twirling in ax, she seemed to be a larger-than-life foe. Which she was. Literally. 

"I think you should hear me out, Slayer, before you chop off my head again." Bob said simply, brushing of a strand of goop that inexplicably landed on Spike's head. His upper lip crinkled. He flung it off as one would shake off a spider. It of course, landed on Angel's back, but it wasn't as if the big broody vamp would notice it anyways. 

"I'm listening. Make it snappy. I could swing this ax all night." Bob nodded gratefully and hastened.

"Hey, the powers that be sent me here." He began. Angel interrupted.

"To do what? Rob some poor red-kettle worker?" Bob gave Angel and scathing look.

"Silence, Fallen One." He bellowed. Angel lifted his eye brows, but shut his mouth when Buffy mimicked slicing her throat with her index finger. 

"I am here to bring some Christmas spirit into your lives." Bob said.

"Oh, bloody hell." Spike exclaimed, flinging his hands into their air. "I've had my share of you ghostly things, pal. Bugger off!" 

"I am not an apparition." Bob's speaking style changed. It was no longer the frivolous voice; he seemed serious. Therefore, the small group listened. "My job is simply to give you some Christmas cheer."

"Look, I-I _really_ don't need any. See?" Buffy smiled toothily, and placed her index fingers on the dimples her smile created. "Lots o' Christmas cheer here!" Bob ignored her. 

"So, I have come to bring the gift of SNOW!" Before anyone could say anything, Bob wiggled his fingers. The ceiling of every floor on Wolfram & Harts grand building suddenly became cloudy. The temperature did not drop, oddly enough. This was odd, because a gentle snowfall began to drift down lazily. The snowflakes did not melt, only settled down on invoices, books, sculptures, lights, and anything else that they could land on. They _still_ didn't melt, even when landing on the radiators. It was pretty.  

Spike scratched his head. "Uh, yeah, this brings cheer _how_?" Bob frowned his scaly demon face. 

"Open your hearts to the joy of Christmas." 

"Uh, right, VAMPIRE!! Remember? Hearts don't open. Scratch that, they don't beat." Spike frowned, perplexed, as if this had just occurred to him.  "Odd, that." Buffy and Angel  gave him a look. 

"What's your problem, Nancy boy?" Spike snapped defensively. He stomped off back towards the dance hall.

            Back in the dance hall, Lorne had taken control. He had kicked the body to the back of the stage and sang a song of calmness that he had learned back in his home dimension. Yeah. Worked great. In fact, it worked _so great_ that the whole dance floor fell asleep. 

"Oy!" Spike bellowed when he entered. "Good job there."

"Why thank you, it was pretty good, wasn't it?" Lorne said, smiling happily. He jumped slightly as the drummer fell forward, pushing his drums and cymbals onto the floor in a big pile. 

"Yeah. Brilliant." Spike jumped up on the stage, and grabbed the microphone from everyone's favorite karaoke-aura-reading demon. 

"Oy, listen up you slackers. I've put a lot of work into this here party, so WAKE UP!" The microphone screeched feed back, and with a seemingly collective gasp, the party goes awoke and stood. Lorne sang a rousing version of Jingle Bells while the sleeping instrumentals awoke and joined in.  Suffice to say, the Wolfram & Hart's Christmas Party was a total success. 

Bob disappeared. It wasn't like he ran away. Or died. He just disappeared. One minute he was there, and the next the halls were empty except for quiet strains of 'Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree'. Snow still came down lazily. About one inch now lay on the phones, and invoices, and carpets. It still refused to melt. Which was almost disturbing. 

"I still don't think he was a good Christmassy-demon."  Buffy said stubbornly, folding her arms. Angel said nothing. He fished in his pocket, and withdrew a small doll. The doll had a silk white gown, and a porcelain head. The head had small glass eyes that were blue, and longish straight blonde hair. Her cheeks were painted a delicate pink. 

He held it out to Buffy.

"Merry Christmas." He said, a shy smile creeping on his lips.

Buffy took it from his hands. It had a small hook on it's back.

"Thank you," She whispered, leaning forward to kiss him on his cheek. "It'll be my Christmas Angel." 

Five days later, everything was back to normal. Sort of. The party hall had been cleaned of the spilt eggnog, broken shoe heels, and vomit from under-age drinkers. Only **_1_** problem remained.

"Harmony!!" Angel poked his head through his office door. "Call the company shamans!" 

"Right-o there, boss!" She said cheerily, picking up her phone.  She dialed the number. The other end picked up. "Hello? Is this the company shaman? Yeah, great. We have a problem. Snow." 


End file.
